


Secretly, between the shadow and the soul

by tainara_black



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Character Study, Domestic Fluff, Falling In Love, Fluff, HD Domesticity Fest 2021, Healer Draco Malfoy, M/M, Minor Pansy Parkinson/Ron Weasley, POV Harry Potter, Pablo Neruda's Poetry, Redeemed Draco Malfoy, Summer Vibes, Sweetness, draco malfoy appreciation, harry is so in love poor thing, if it's too sweet I am sorry, make sure to wash your teeth afterwards so you don't have cavities with all this sugar, meet cute, poema XVII, this fic is a study on love, this is my first fluff fic be gentle
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-25
Updated: 2021-02-25
Packaged: 2021-03-13 03:00:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,983
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28771224
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tainara_black/pseuds/tainara_black
Summary: The thing about surrender is that once you accept the unavoidable rhythm of change, the surprising uncontrollability of life, and the astonishing inevitability of feelings, it is easy.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 16
Kudos: 102
Collections: HD Domesticity Fest





	Secretly, between the shadow and the soul

**Author's Note:**

> The sonnet used in this story is **Poema XVII** by Pablo Neruda in _One Hundred Love Sonnets_. All the praise and gratitude to Mari and Jess for doing splendid beta work! And J and D for reading and hyping and helping out with the title, also taken from Neruda’s poem. And for the lovely HD Domesticity fest mods, Polly and Emma, for making it possible!  
> prompt #33. Dear prompter, I tried my best to write something that would fit your prompt, I'm not sure if I managed it alright, but I do hope you enjoy it! <3

**_Secretly, between the shadow and the soul_ **

_(A Study on Love)_

~°~

Grimmauld Place is quiet. 

The sunlight flows through the open curtains and splashes in, warming over the coverlet. Harry blinks sleepily, his body feeling alive and content. 

He is alone in bed, but the bedroom door is open and the delicious fragrant smell of fresh coffee comes from downstairs.

He gets out of bed and pads softly on socked feet, only in his pants and pyjama shirt, through the maze of hallways and down the stairs.

He stops by the doorframe of the drawing room and watches. 

It’s a scene to behold. A sight to be cherished.

Draco is sitting on the old threadbare rug, naked long legs crossed, hands gently holding a steaming mug of coffee, hair forming a messy blond halo on the top of his head, falling lovingly over one side of his brow, eyes transfixed on the old Black genealogical tree tapestry. 

He’s wearing one of Harry’s old Gryffindor t-shirts — it’s a bit big on him, falling off one slender shoulder. 

The sunlight dances over him like a spotlight, his hair shines with a golden quality, his mouth moves softly around whispered words but Harry can’t hear what he says. He looks almost childish, sitting there, vulnerable in a way Harry never imagined to see Draco in his home.

He looks beautifully at peace.

The image in front of his eyes makes Harry feel warm all over, a strong wave of affection and tenderness unfolds inside his chest like a rainbow and washes him with boiling gentleness.

Harry wants to keep him.

~º~

_I love you as one loves certain obscure things,_

_secretly, between the shadow and the soul._

~º~

The thing about change is that you never see it coming until it’s here, established. 

Like the night, it creeps shade after shade until it builds up, painting the sky in dark hues of blues and grays and blacks. 

Change is like this, like spring unfolding gently after a freezing winter. Every day slightly moving the weather into more pleasant temperatures, into longer seconds and then minutes of daylight. Suddenly, without you realising it, the blossoming flowers and colours take you by surprise: they are there for good, for months, until the surroundings change once again, slowly, into too hot breezes and days so long you never know what time it is. 

Harry is surprised by change. 

He is pretty sure it started on a drunken pub night with Ron kissing Pansy Parkinson, and Draco Malfoy laughing by his side at the absurdity of the scene. But he’s not too sure. 

Harry asks himself if it started way before, over breakfasts at Hogwarts staring at Malfoy and his parcels full of treats sent from home. He asks himself if it started with late nights watching Draco’s steps on the Marauder’s Map, or if it started when he bumped into the Slytherin wearing lime green robes at St Mungo’s two years ago. 

He looked beautiful in lime green, and that was a huge accomplishment. 

So Harry doesn’t know. He only knows that things changed for good and inside his chest there’s a myriad of colours and butterflies and soft winds blowing in all directions at the same time every time he looks at Draco. 

Every time he sees Draco in even the softest and most domestic of situations.

~º~

He’s sitting on top of a high branch on a tall tree. Harry doesn’t remember why he ended up there, but it’s summer and the heat is suffocating and Ron or Ginny dared him. So here he is, while everyone else is on the ground over the picnic blanket by the thin stream close to the Burrow. 

Ginny keeps jumping in and out of the water and splashing rivulets of cold stream water on everyone. He watches them, enchanted by the opportunity of getting a glimpse. As always, it takes him by surprise, the delicacy of a normal life. A life in peace and not war. A life full of a certain kind of freedom and quietness. 

It took him years to overcome the constant fear. The constant nightmares. The constant alert. But now, now he has learnt how to relax. How to absorb. How to accept life, every single small sip of it, once at a time. Constantly. 

So he watches, as Parkinson luxuriates under the sun in an old-fashioned polka dot bikini and huge sunglasses, resting her head on Ron’s chest, passing him a can of Muggle beer. And how Ron laughs as Ginny runs around and jumps on Dean, getting him all wet and cold. How Luna is lying on her belly, elbows propping her up while reading a thick book about whatever it is she is interested now. 

And Draco...

Harry always takes his time to watch Draco. 

How his long fingers braid small yellow and white flowers into Luna’s long, messy hair. How he does it slowly and methodically, entwining blonde strands of hair with thin green stems of flowers, creating intricate patterns with dedication and calm, his back turned to Harry.

So Harry notices, not only how slightly pinkish Draco’s shoulders are because of the sun, but he also notices the constellations of tiny dark moles on his fair skin, on his shoulder blades, over the curve of his spine, on the small of his back. 

Harry asks himself how many constellations he could count, if he dared to press his fingers and draw the patterns on Draco's back. They are not like the Milky Way of freckles that Ron and Ginny have. No. They are proper tiny dots, some bigger than others, perfectly round and distinct. 

He asks himself if he could find the Draco Constellation, or Canis Major, or Orion. 

Draco looks up at the sky, and Harry watches transfixed as a bigger mole turns out to exist in the soft flesh behind his right ear. 

And Harry decides he wants to touch that one. With the tip of his tongue. He wants to taste the flavour of Draco’s skin. He wants him. 

He wants—

~º~

_I love you as the plant that doesn’t bloom but carries_

_the light of those flowers, hidden, within itself._

~º~

The thing about life is that it’s uncontrollable, as the weather and the wild animals that run free into the night. And not being able to control it can be a curse or a cure, depending on how one deals with the inevitability of life. 

Because _it was_ inevitable. 

The push and pull inside Harry’s chest. The constant extreme movement of his beating heart, oh so loud, every time his eyes and Draco’s held. It was magical—a magical struggle to avoid it, and another magical struggle to accept it. 

He tried though, not only avoiding it but—before that—pretending he didn’t feel it. Even though it had been nagging inside his rib cage like an agonising beast, huge like a whole unknown continent inside him.

Harry knew the feeling. He knew what it meant. He never expected to feel it towards Malfoy, though. Not like this, not this strong. He wanted to fight it, to throw it off like he did an Imperius curse.

He wanted to control his own reactions and interactions and heartbeats. 

But life is not to be controlled like this. 

Life flows like river water, strong and intense, then sometimes slow and calm. And life right now feels tempestuous, just like his heart beating a fast tempo while Malfoy checks Teddy’s temperature and runs diagnostic spells and checks his tonsils with a blue light on the tip of his wand. 

It shouldn’t feel like this to watch Malfoy exercise his profession on paediatric healing. It shouldn’t warm Harry all over just like a high fever to see how his long pale fingers caress Teddy’s bluish hair and smiles at him, talking softly and putting him to bed, before going down to have a word with Andromeda. 

But it feels just like this. 

Feelings so tempestuous inside his chest, like a summer storm in a tropical rainforest. It feels all-encompassing and way too much to hear the way Draco reassures Andromeda gently that it’s really just a fever, nothing to worry about.

But Harry knows his own case is not just a fever. Even when he is trying his best not to feel like this. He’s sure the feeling burns like fever and turns into ribbons of yearning intertwined so intricately around the arteries of his heart and the roots of his bowels in beautiful patterns, just like the ones he watched Draco braid in Luna’s hair.

And he wants Draco to braid himself all over Harry. 

He can’t control life, he can’t control feelings.

~º~

Draco is now everywhere. Because Ron and Pansy are engaged and she is pregnant, and what used to be a once a week encounter, is turning into a nearly constant presence. 

At the Wednesday pub night with friends, and Friday dinners at Luna’s cottage, and Saturday’s tea with Teddy and Andromeda, and Sunday lunches at the Burrow. And Harry has not enough willpower to make his feelings stop.

So Harry watches, dumbfounded, by the kitchen door as Draco helps Molly with the roast chicken, and asks her about the right amount of spices. How he mumbles about house-elves never letting him help cook when he lived at the Manor, or how his mother doesn’t even know how to fix tea by herself. 

And Molly laughs at him, patting his cheek softly, kindly. Muttering when would they have ever imagined having Draco round their kitchen so often, and how he turned into such an admirable young man. 

Harry watches the blush creep from the open neck of Draco’s sweater and run up to his pale cheeks, tinting them in a deep pink hue. Harry wants to touch the colour on his cheeks, feel them warm under his own palm. 

Draco sputters, taken aback, and laughs surprised at Molly. And her almond-shaped hazel eyes turn to Harry, knowingly. And Harry feels busted. He asks himself if she sees it, the rainforest storm inside his chest, the strong tide of affection running deep inside his bones, if it’s visible to everyone else.

He asks himself if Draco has it figured out already, when Draco also turns his head around and his gaze holds Harry in place, mouth partially open and the high blush on his cheeks making him look soft and pliable. Harry wants to run his tongue over that mouth and taste it, taste every single hue and flavour and softness in Draco. 

Taste the changes in life and the absurdity of feelings.

His eyes drop to Draco’s mouth for way too long a second and when he looks back at grey eyes, Draco has such a surprised expression that Harry knows deep down his bones, that if Draco hasn’t figured it out before, he has just been enlightened by the truth of the strong waves of feeling crashing down inside Harry’s heart. 

He wonders if now Draco knows Harry is in love with him.

~º~

_I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where_

~º~

The thing about surrender is that once you accept the unavoidable rhythm of change, the surprising uncontrollability of life, and the astonishing inevitability of feelings, it is easy. 

Surrendering is like letting the tide pull you under, or allowing the winds to guide the way. It’s like a specific kind of quietness, a gentle silence that is not barren—on the contrary, it’s a pregnant silence filled with pleasant emotions. 

Once Harry accepts the tempestuous turmoil of feelings inside his chest every time he sees Draco, the warmth and kindness of those feelings become something delightful and familiar. Not quite like the initial butterflies and winds, not as intense as the rainforest storm, but something like the comes and goes of the waves on a sunny beach. Lapping at his chest in a constant rhythm. 

He becomes used to it. Harry surrenders to the emotions and feelings and the inevitability of it. He starts to enjoy the way his body lights up when Draco is around, how his eyes chase him in the room, how his breath speeds up a bit every time their gaze holds or when they exchange words. 

He delights in the anxiety before their encounters and rejoices in their interactions. His green eyes never miss any heartbeat of movement. 

Surrender makes him bold. Allows him the luxury of watching openly and frequently. As Draco and Ginny laugh over a pint at the pub, or how Draco fixes tea in Andromeda’s kitchen. How he arrives in his lime green robes for Luna’s dinner and goes into the bathroom to change, or how he comes out of the bathroom with his hair a bit disheveled and the light blue cardigan falling from his left shoulder. 

Harry watches and surrenders at the face of love. 

~º~

“You watch me a lot,” Draco says, putting on his coat. 

Harry smiles looking at his feet, adjusting his own coat. 

He shrugs. 

“I like to watch you,” he replies, turning his eyes back to Draco before they go out into the cold breeze of night. 

“Why?” Draco asks, cheeks flushing and slightly wide-eyed. 

“Don’t you know already?” Harry asks.

And they walk out of Luna’s cottage side by side. It’s cold and breezy and Harry turns to him again, watching how the blond hair whips in the wind.

Draco is very silent and very still for a moment. Then he sighs and turns to look at Harry. 

“Have I changed so much that you are still searching for proof that I’m up to something?”

Harry laughs, shaking his head, seeing how tense Draco looks waiting for an answer. 

“No.” Harry smiles at him, warm and real and gentle. “You changed so much that now I can’t take my eyes off you,” he admits. 

Draco’s blush grows brighter and Harry wants to touch it, but he doesn’t. He just watches.

“Potter...”

He waits and watches and hopes.

“I didn’t want to believe it.”

Harry smiles at him. 

“So you did know!” 

“I hoped,” Draco admits, smiling softly, shrugging his shoulders. Then his nose wrinkles a bit, clearing his throat and saying: “It’s reciprocal.”

The strong pull of affection and hope blossoms like springtime in Harry’s chest. Inside his body, there are waves crashing and winds blowing and rainforest storming.

“Draco—”

Draco steps closer, a hand on Harry’s chin, turning his face up a bit. Harry can feel his breath against his cheek and his long fingers on his skin and his heart is beating so fast maybe even Draco can hear it. 

“Every time you watch me, I feel like I matter.” Draco whispers. 

His voice is so quiet in the wind that Harry feels like in a dream. 

“You matter so much,” he replies, hands moving up to cup Draco’s blushing cheeks. 

They feel warm and soft and Harry wants to discover all the small parts of Draco that he watched so intently, and all the other bits he couldn’t watch properly. He’s done watching. He wants to touch now, to explore with his fingers and hands and all the limbs of his body. 

And Draco is kissing him, gentle and careful at the beginning, lips touching softly and tenderly, and it feels beautiful, all things inside Harry are fluttering and giving space to something new: to reality, to experience, to liveliness. 

And Harry loves it. 

Loves how Draco tastes like dessert and red wine and warmth and reality. How his hair feels like satin and his skin is warm and wonderful. 

Harry holds him in place after the kiss, eyes closed, their brows touching, resting together until their breath slows down. 

“Come to mine?” he asks, hopeful.

And Draco goes.

~º~

_I love you like this because I don’t know any other way to love,_

_except in this form in which I am not nor are you,_

_so close that your hand upon my chest is mine,_

_so close that your eyes close with my dreams._

~º~

The thing about love is that love is unsettling. It can start quietly and gently. It can turn into something so massive that sometimes one can’t even breathe with the weight of it. It can crash in violent waves inside one’s chest and sometimes it hurts.

But love can also be simple, soft, kind. It can be a mole behind one’s ear, and a constellation on someone’s back, it can be a touch on a child’s brow or long fingers braiding a friend’s hair. 

It can be a smile, a cup of coffee. It can be change, so big and consistent, that surprises you beyond belief. It can be lime green robes or soft cardigans. It can be an old t-shirt falling over a bony shoulder.

Love can be surrendering to life and change. 

And sometimes, love stays. 

So when Harry watches Draco on that sunny morning, sitting on the threadbare rug in the drawing room of Grimmauld Place, with his naked legs and a steaming cup of coffee in hands, Harry wants to keep him.

But above all, he hopes Draco wants to stay.

“Hey,” Harry whispers softly, walking into the room.

Draco turns, looking like a painting under the sunlight, with his hair forming a golden halo around his head, his eyes dancing with joy and a bright smile on his pink lips.

Harry kissed those lips last night. 

He kissed every single mole and constellation pattern on Draco’s back, but especially the one behind his ear. He whispered his heart’s truth onto Draco’s fair skin and long limbs. He loved him endlessly, with their fingers intertwined and eyes watching each other. 

“‘Morning, Harry,” Draco says, extending a hand to him, inviting him closer.

And Harry suspects he will stay. 

**~º~**

**Author's Note:**

> Mod note: Thank you for reading this work of the Domesticity Fest! Remember to send the author a nice comment and a lovely Kudo! :)


End file.
